


Catch Your Breath

by kereia



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: Banter, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Mutual Pining, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-15
Updated: 2017-12-15
Packaged: 2019-02-15 06:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13025145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kereia/pseuds/kereia
Summary: Paris conquered Verona. As far as Rosaline and Benvolio are concerned, this will be no more than a temporary inconvenience.





	Catch Your Breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hellabaloo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellabaloo/gifts).



> Dear hellabaloo,
> 
> thank you so much for letting me play in this sandbox. I loved your letter, which gave me just the right amount of plot bunnies to narrow down this wide playing field. I had a lot of fun writing for you, and I hope you enjoy the result. :) All the best and have an awesome holiday season.
> 
> Happy Yuletide!

The city was lost, and once again Benvolio found himself locked inside a cell beneath the palace.

Of course, a few things were different this time. On the up side, his execution was no longer imminent. (Though he was very careful to qualify that point with a cautious 'for now,' lest he get swept away by optimism.) On the down side, he was no longer the cell's only occupant, but enjoyed the dubious privilege of his family's company. (Most prominently, his uncle, who had, less than a day ago, admitted to poisoning Benvolio's father.)

Also, due to the fact that even one of the finest swordsmen of Verona was no match for an entire army, he had taken a sword wound to his side, which would most likely prove to be fatal. Adding up that tally, Benvolio concluded that his situation had not improved much since he'd been taken on a walk to the guillotine this morning.

And the worst thing was, and here Benvolio's capacity for gallows humor met its sorry end, that he didn't know what had happened to Rosaline.

They'd been separated while trying to save the Prince — Benvolio descending a narrow staircase while fighting off half a score of Paris's men, as Rosaline and Isabella led the way into the tunnels beneath the city. Escalus had been slung unceremoniously across the shoulder of a royal guardsmen, the necessity for survival overruling any deference to his position and dignity. It was the last time he had seen her, and even though he'd known that his stand would only buy them a few minutes, he clung to the hope that those minutes had been enough.

Taking a shaky breath, Benvolio pressed his arm tightly against the wound in his side. He'd torn off one of his sleeves to use as a compress, but it seemed of little use. The fabric was soaked through. Trying to ignore the pain in his side as well as the whispered conversations around him, he closed his eyes and sagged against the iron bars behind him. Upon his capture, someone had hit him over the head hard enough to make him lose consciousness. (The thought that stabbing him had apparently not been enough to subdue him properly was a shallow consolation in view of the throbbing at the back of his skull, but he, nevertheless, tried to take it as a compliment.)

His musings were interrupted when footsteps drew his attention toward the stairs.

 _More prisoners_ , he thought warily, noting that the cells were getting rather crowded. But, to his surprise, it was one of his cousins who was escorted through the door, two guards preceding as well as following her.

He straightened. "What is the meaning of this?" he asked before he could stop himself. "Surely, you don't intend to subject a woman to this place?"

One of the guards pulled his sword from its scabbard. "Be silent," the man commanded, then turned his attention back toward the woman. "Well, which one is he?"

Benvolio had to admire the look of aristocratic arrogance which his cousin bestowed on her captor. It was true, that thanks to his uncle's low opinion of him, Benvolio had found himself on the receiving end of such hauteur from far more family members then he liked to recall, but, under the circumstances, he could appreciate it as a show of defiance.

Said appreciation turned to consternation when his cousin reluctantly pointed at him.

"This is Benvolio Montague," she said.

Instinctively, Benvolio took a step back.

"What do you want with me?" he asked as the cell door was opened and one of the guards took hold of his arm. The man didn't answer. He dragged Benvolio towards the stairs where his cousin waited for him with an indecipherable expression on her face. Only after the door had closed behind them, did she lean closer.

"It seems your Capulet pleaded for your life again," she said, sardonically.

* * * * *

He was taken to a sparsely furnished room with a bed and vanity situated next to a small window. Aside from the hip bath crammed into the corner, there was little else to distract him from the guards who had taken up position on either side of the open door. His cousin had excused herself, explaining that the noble women had been confined to the Princess's rooms. His hesitant inquiry as to Escalus and Isabella's whereabouts had been answered with a slight shake of her head, which Benvolio took to mean that they had escaped.

 _But not Rosaline_ , he thought, worry gnawing at him.

Though impatience vibrated through every fibre of his being, he forced himself to stand still and wait, a task difficult even under normal circumstances. The bath tempted him with its clean water, but even the smallest movement jarred his head and injured side, and the brief journey upstairs had sapped him of more strength than he liked to admit.

It was a small mercy that he didn't have to wait long.  Within minutes of his arrival, Rosaline strode through the door, her back straight, her head held high, and her manner imperious.

At the sight of her, he felt as if a great weight had been lifted off his chest, allowing him to breathe more easily. His injuries momentarily forgotten, he rushed towards her. "Rosaline, are you alright?"

His fingertips came to rest against her wrist as his eyes drank her in, reassuring himself that she had come to no harm in his absence.

Her eyes softened briefly. "I'm well," she said. Then steel resettled into her gaze as she turned towards the silent guards. "Leave us."

The men's protests were cut off with authority. "There is nowhere for us to go. We're too high up to jump out the window, and there are no proper footholds or convenient rose trellises to climb down. Believe me; I looked," she said tersely, and Benvolio bit down on a smile. "You are to wait outside the door," she commanded again.

Though they looked far from reassured, the men left, and Rosaline firmly closed the door behind them.

Then, she turned back towards Benvolio. Their eyes met.

"I'm glad to see that captivity has done little to humble you," he teased her, fondness evident in his voice.

Rosaline pursed her lips as if annoyed, but there was a mischievous gleam in her eyes. "It is not in the nature of harpies to be humbled by adversity."

Benvolio swallowed a laugh. "I see. Is it in their nature then, to save their mortal enemies from certain death?" Though his tone was light, the severity of their current predicament did not escape him, and he averted his gaze, suddenly unaccountably nervous. "Because it seems you make a habit of it", he continued, "and I am at a loss as to how I shall repay this debt."

Rosaline stepped close to him, a gentle smile hidden in the corners of her mouth. "Last I remember, I called you friend, not enemy, and if there is a debt, you may settle it by helping me overthrow Paris."

Even though he was all too aware of the danger surrounding them, now that Paris had claimed the city for himself, his traitorous heart ached for a different reason.

 _Friends_.

Of course, they were friends. It had been foolish of him to hope for more. Emotions had run high for both of them during the past two days. Was it any wonder that they had been swept away by them, however briefly? But rational people did not go from despising to loving each other in a matter of weeks. It was time to admit that her kiss had been intended as a kindness — a gesture of comfort and affection for an unlikely friend who was about to be executed for a crime he had not committed. Indeed, he would be well served to content himself with her friendship. He knew very well that he hardly deserved it after he had ruined her reputation by asking her to leave the city with him.

Addressing her statement, Benvolio schooled his features into an bemused look. "Plotting already, Capulet?"

Her smile was positively radiant. "Always. Now, let me look at you." She placed a satchel on the bed and opened it. "Are you hurt?" she asked with a look over her shoulder. "I brought  ointments and bandages."

He shook his head, exhausted. "It is no matter, Capulet," he said softly.

Spine snapping straight, Rosaline whirled to face him, her eyes wide.

Belatedly, he realized that he had used similar words when she'd visited him before his execution.

"Oh, no. What happened?" In an instant, she was by his side, her hands reaching for him. Benvolio felt a sudden wave of dizziness descend upon him. He sagged towards her.

Calling his name, Rosaline steadied him and slung his arm across her shoulder. The motion dislodged his makeshift compress. As the sodden fabric tumbled to the ground, Rosaline swore.

She half dragged, half carried him to the bed, cursing as they went, and in spite of his light-headedness, Benvolio was impressed by her creative use of adjectives.

With an unladylike grunt, she dumped him onto the mattress and proceeded to tear off his clothes. "Black," she grumbled beneath her breath. "Forget overthrowing Paris. This is how you can repay your debt. By never wearing black again. It hides the blood too well."

"As you wish," he replied faintly.

"And if I ever hear you say again that it doesn't matter that you are bleeding all over yourself, I swear to God..." her voice trailed off as she reached for her satchel, but he could hear the anger in it.

He found her hands and held on tight. "I'm glad that I was able to see you again. I wasn't sure that I would."

Rosaline snatched her hands back as if he'd burned her. "Don't you dare. Your life _matters_. It matters to me. And it should matter to you."

He didn't know what to say to that. The vehemence in her voice had stunned him, and he regretted upsetting her, but he didn't know how to apologize for it. He watched in silence as she went to the hip bath to wet a piece of cloth. Returning to his side, she started to clean and examine his wounds.

It wasn't that he didn't remember being loved. But his parents' death — murder, he reminded himself — had brought an end to that. Afterwards, every day was lived with the understanding that he was no more than a vessel for the Montague name, to be married off for the good of the family. And even the brief respite that Romeo and Mercutio's friendship had granted from that bleak prospect didn't diminish the growing doubts inside his mind that he simply wasn't worth caring for.

It seemed the height of irony that being betrothed to a Capulet and being framed for murder had finally shaken him out of his self-pitying stupor.

 _Quite dramatic, really_ , he thought, but sobered quickly. For on the heels of this self-deprecation came the realization that his world had apparently not been shaken up enough to dislodge his penchant for martyrdom. This was proven when Rosaline reached for needle and thread and pronounced, with evident relief, that he would live.

"I will?" He asked in disbelief, his eyes straying to his wound and the blood welling up around it.

"Yes," she said emphatically.

"Oh." He paused. "Well, that's good then."

Rosaline rolled her eyes and threaded the needle.

"I have to say, I feel quite foolish, now," he admitted after another pause.

"Good. It serves you right for frightening me like that." She leaned over and squeezed his hand. "I'm sorry, but this is going to hurt."

It did.

Gritting his teeth as the needle pierced his skin, Benvolio tried to distract himself from the pain by asking about Escalus and Isabella.

"They escaped," Rosaline said, her brow furrowed in concentration. "We separated below the city wall, and I was able to lead Paris's soldiers down a different path." She lowered her voice, mindful of the guards outside the door. "We were supposed to meet up after nightfall, but by then there were guards stationed at every exit, and I was caught as I left the tunnels."

"Paris must be furious," Benvolio mused. He studied her. "Did he hurt you?" he asked, worried that Paris had tried to make her divulge the Prince's whereabouts.

Rosaline shook her head. "He's not happy about Escalus's escape, but for the moment, he seems content in his victory." Here she hesitated, her hands stilling in their task.

"What is it?" he pressed her.

"Paris won't tell me where my sister is. I think he means to use her as leverage against me and my family."

"I dare say he has similar plans for us Montagues," Benvolio replied and placed his hand on her arm, hoping to give her comfort. "We will find her," he vowed and was rewarded with a brittle smile.

"Are there any other injuries?" she asked as she leaned back over him to finish the suture.

He told her about the blow to his head. His headache had receded to a dull throbbing since he'd laid down. "I wonder why he allowed you to tend to me," he mused.

"I don't know," Rosaline replied, tying off the thread. "When I talked to him, he was..." she trailed off, contemplating, but soon shook her head in frustration. "There's something he wasn't telling me."

"About your sister?"

"I don't know." Her voice was tight with anger. "If he hurt her... If he so much as harmed a hair on her head..." She stopped, her hands shaking, and Benvolio knew her well enough to see the fear beneath her fury. He wished he could draw her close and hold her tight. He wished he could stride into the throne room, hold his swords to Paris's throat, and force him to restore Livia to her sister, but in his current state he could do neither. As it was, Rosaline put her hands against his chest when he tried to sit up. She gently pressed him down again, heedless of his protests.

"There will be plenty of time to fight later," she said firmly. Her palms were a solid weight against his skin, and she did not ease her pressure until he stopped pushing up against her. Finally, he relented with a frustrated groan. Rosaline fixed him with her steady gaze. "For now, I will hold on to the hope that she is unhurt. And so must you. It will do neither of us any good to run off unprepared."

He had to concede that she was right. Prevented from confronting Paris thusly, he squeezed her hand, resigned to offer what paltry comfort he could.

"We will find her," he repeated fiercely.

She held on tight and brushed her free hand through his hair.

"I know," she replied softly, and his heart skipped a beat. He leaned into her touch as her fingertips trailed along the shell of his ear to rest against his cheek.

 _Could it be?_  he wondered. Surely, this was not just a gesture of friendship. Was there hope? He dared not ask outright, and a mere second later Rosaline pulled away and dropped her gaze. She tugged an errand lock of hair behind her ear, then busied herself returning her supplies to her satchel.

Feeling that something had shifted between them, Benvolio tried to focus. "Is there a plan?" he asked.

Rosaline nodded. "They will stay at the monastery until Escalus is well enough to ride on to Padua."

"Is that a smart idea? Padua is no friend of Verona."

"They have little choice. There are not enough soldiers to reclaim the city, so the only path open to them is to undermine Paris from within. With our help. At least that's what Isabella and I discussed before we parted."

"And you mean to be their agent?"

Rosaline bandaged his side before she replied. Once she had finished, she raised her eyes to his, a fierce determination burning within them. "Yes."

His hand found hers. "A risky venture," he said quietly.

"A worthy one," she replied.

Benvolio nodded silently. While he hated the thought of Rosaline putting herself in danger, he could not help but admire her bravery. He had no intention to dissuade her. It seemed like ages ago, that she had made plans to leave the city and everyone in it in order to join a convent. But regardless of her feelings for him, he knew that she loved Escalus. Just as he knew that her loyalty and sense of justice would not allow her to turn her back on Verona or its ruler.

"Command me then, and I will do what I can to restore Escalus to his throne." His thumb brushed across her wrist as her eyes lit up. "And to keep you save," he added, emphatically, which earned him an exasperated look.

"You will need time to heal. You've lost quite a lot of blood."

"But thanks to you, I'm definitely not dying," he reminded her.

"No."

"Well," he said, striving for levity, "I think I would've made a dashing martyr."

She shot him a hard look through narrowed eyes.

"I believe what you _meant_ to say just now was 'thank you, Rosaline, for saving my life. Again. For dedicating your considerable skills in diplomacy and needlework to a cause as noble as it is hopeless, seeing as I'll be sure to get into trouble again before the night is over. For I am Benvolio Montague, whose mastery of swordsmanship is only exceeded by my ability to dive head first into situations that require it.'"

Benvolio looked up at her. "That was a very pretty speech, but I believe you exaggerate my talents for fencing," he teased.

Rosaline huffed. "I certainly exaggerated my talents for needlework, so you'd do well to be careful."

They grinned at each other. Then, before he could debate the wisdom of his actions, he lifted a hand to her face and brushed his thumb across her cheek. "Thank you," he said with sincerity.

Rosaline closed her eyes for a moment, then placed her own hand above his. Turning her head, she pressed her lips against the inside of his wrist, and Benvolio forgot to breathe.

Some hint of his wayward heart must have shown itself on his face, for she looked at him askance. "What is it?"

His chest suddenly felt too tight. He averted his gaze. "It's nothing," he hedged, but Rosaline would have none of that.

She spoke his name, a warning in her voice.

He chanced a look at her and winced at her expression. It seemed he had a gift for vexing her. Breathing deeply, he collected his thoughts. After all, what did he have to lose? Had he not escaped death twice in as many days? Was it not better to know the truth rather than to live on hope alone?

He swallowed nervously and tried to decide on how to best broach the subject.

"The Prince spared my life because you asked him to," he finally began. "The only reason I'm alive is because he trusted your judgement of my character above the evidence laid against me."

"Escalus and I have known each other a long time," Rosaline replied, obviously unsure where this conversation was headed.

Benvolio absentmindedly caressed the back of her hands as he continued. "He's a good man."

"Yes. He is."

"More than that, he loves you. And after everything that happened, I don't believe that your family name will be an obstacle to a union between the two of you any longer." He winced at the formality of his speech, but it was difficult enough to get the words out. Eloquence was beyond him.

Rosaline pulled her hands back. "I see," she said slowly, a note of pique in her voice.

"I wouldn't blame you," he assured her hastily. "When you kissed me… We were both desperate. Or, at least I was, and…"

"You think I kissed you out of pity," she interrupted him.

"Kindness," he corrected quickly. His gaze found hers, open and sincere, but Rosaline only raised her eyebrows in obvious exasperation.

"Well, that explains how you survived that blow to your skull. A blunt instrument is no match against someone as thick-headed as you are."

Her barb had no sting to it. Instead, it made his heart beat faster.

"You mean…"

"Montague," she interrupted him again, his name riding on a laugh as she drew closer. "Do be quiet for once." And then her lips brushed against his own.

He met her eagerly, his mouth opening beneath hers with a low moan. He felt her brace her hand beside his head as she leaned into him, mindful of his injury, but Benvolio cared not one whit about the pain in his body. She set him alight with heat and passion and wonder. He revelled in the warmth of her body as it curved above his and pulled her closer, knowing that it would never be close enough. He would happily drown in her — her kindness, her strength, her defiant courage — and still feel parched the moment they parted, body and mind aching for just one more taste.

His heart beating like a wild thing in his chest, he slanted his mouth against hers, thrilled when her tongue brushed boldly against his own. A noise escaped her throat — half sigh, half moan — and the sound rushed through his body like a tidal wave, igniting every nerve ending along the way. A shudder ran through him, at once pleasant and agonizing, and he chased the sensation with the hot, wet slide of his tongue against the inside of her mouth.

Her hands traveled across his chest; a slow, deliberate caress from his abdomen to his neck. Her fingers pressed into his skin, the weight of her touch evidence of the same hunger that engulfed him. Mindless with desire, his body arced up to meet hers, when, suddenly, a stab of pain shot through his side.

He hissed, but tried to hold on to Rosaline, who had snapped away from him.

"It's all right," he reassured her breathlessly, before he'd even looked down to see whether or not he'd torn his stitches.

"No, we need to be more careful." Rosaline lifted the bandage and gently prodded his aching side until she was satisfied that he had not done himself further harm. He bore her examination quietly, catching his breath. His gaze roamed over her, noting the lushness of her lips, glistening and slightly swollen from their kisses. He swallowed hard, a tremor running through him as he was momentarily overwhelmed by the ferocity of his desire for her.

Her gaze darted to his face when she felt his muscles tense bneatht her hands. Her eyes were dark and steady, tempering her obvious exasperation with a tenderness that stole his breath away. Not too long ago, he would've called himself a fool to hope that anyone would ever look at him this way, let alone Rosaline Capulet.

"Will you stay?" he asked, his voice rough with emotion.

With narrowed eyes and pursed lips, Rosaline glanced briefly at the door. Then she stood. "I shouldn't," she replied, but to his delight, she only walked around the bed to climb in next to him. "It will sully your reputation," she said as she tugged herself against his good side and propped her chin against his shoulder. "You'll be ruined by morning, consorting with the enemy like that."

He smiled up at her, the fire inside him banked to a warm glow.

"I believe we have established that I like to live dangerously."

She pressed a quick, hot kiss to his mouth and settled herself against him. "You're insufferable, Montague."

Turning his head, he brushed his lips against her forehead and inhaled the sweet, clean scent of her. "I hate you too, Capulet." he whispered fondly and pulled her close.

The End


End file.
